“I understand you and my son were talking to her, Riley St. James, and Alexander Farnsworth down by the docks earlier.”
I said nothing, knew I was better off neither confirming nor denying.
“The way I heard it,” Pete Gibbs said, clearing his throat before continuing, “you were interviewing them? Asking them about Lauren and Rattling Jane?” He looked at me for a long time, his blue eyes turning grayer and stonier by the moment. “Evidently Zoey got shook up so bad she had the mother of all asthma attacks.”
“Asthma?” I said with a snort. “Are you kidding? The kid was chain-smoking. I’m no doctor, but I’m guessing that might have had something to do with her breathing problems.”
“Look, the thing is…” He moved a little closer, speaking more softly, like a friend about to share a secret. In addition to the cologne, he smelled fresh, like laundry hung out on the line to dry. “Zoey is kind of a… fragile kid. A history of anxiety. Even some self-harm. Her family is worried. The last thing they want is someone encouraging these crazy ideas that make her so freaked out she can’t catch her breath and has to be rushed to the hospital to get shot up with steroids. You get that, right?”
I nodded.
“My son is a good kid, but he has… questionable friends sometimes. I’ve spoken to him and asked him to stay away from that particular group, Zoey especially.” His jaw tensed, and he looked out at the lake.
“He seems like a great kid, actually,” I said.
He nodded. “He is. I feel really lucky. His mom died when he was ten, so it’s been just the two of us for a long time. He keeps me on my toes, that’s for sure.”
“I can only imagine,” I said.
He smiled, shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. “So, what are you doing out here at the Wildflower Cottages, Miss Shelley? I’m sure you’re aware this is private property?”
“Just looking around. Thinking I might come for a longer stay next summer, rent a little place…”
“You looking for Rattling Jane?”
I didn’t answer, only smiled in what I hoped was a neutral way.
He gave me a knowing look. “You can do all the ghost hunting you want. I’m sure there are a lot of folks in town who’d love to tell you a story or two about Rattling Jane. And I’m equally sure there are business owners who would love the extra publicity—the idea that your podcast might bring in more tourist dollars, that you might even get the TV folks interested in featuring our little community on an episode or two. But I’d like you to leave Lauren out of it. That includes poking around the cabin her family rented. The owner, Jake, is pretty particular about the area being only for registered guests.”
“I understand,” I said.
“And I need to know that you’re not going to bother the kids in town anymore or add to the crazy stories going around about Lauren being dragged into the lake by a ghost.”
I nodded.
“I’d also appreciate it if you’d stop sharing… these particular theories with my son. He’s got a pretty wild imagination. I don’t think it needs stoking.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Do we have a deal?” he asked, eyebrows raised.
“Sure,” I said, and started walking toward my van. I stopped, turned back to him. “Can I ask you a question, Constable?”
He smiled. “Please, call me Pete. And sure, you can ask me anything, but I’ve gotta warn you, I’m not a big believer in the supernatural. I’m afraid I don’t have a single Rattling Jane encounter to report despite having lived here my whole life.”